Secrets of the Dead
The heavens rained down from their darkened skies, flashing angrily to those who defied the weather in pursuit of travel. Wagon wheels groaned through the mud that splattered the underbellies of the plodding mounts. Lanterns flickered bravely as the wind shook their holds violently. Through the inclement weather came a small procession into the heart of the Dawnstar Forest. One wagon, three horses, two riders. One body. Aged sentinels of stone watched over the gates as the portcullis ground painfully open to admit entry to these untimely visitors. Sheltered Flame Keep’s many eyes tracked the movement from within the gates and atop the weathered wall. “T’rumor be true den, aye?” One guard whispered as an aside to the other at his flank, cheek turned into the rain. He licked the taste from his lips. “What rumor?” Incredulously stated the other, squinting with disapproval up at his shift mate. “S’just a package meant to be delivered to ‘er Grace.” “That’s shaped like a /body/, you fool?” The first scoffed, gesturing forth as the procession filed beneath them. “A runner came ahead mebbe an hour ago, saying that a dead man was being brought here…says he’s a mage.” Fingers wiggling in mockery, he rolled his eyes. “/That/ rumor.” With a snort, the kneeling man shook his head and scratched at an insect bite on his chin. “An hour ago? Then it ain’t a rumor now, is it?” Muttering a few more things under his breath, he shoved to his feet and clapped the younger one on the shoulder. “Let’s go.” ---- Deep beneath the belly of the ancestral castle ‘Flame, the crypt glowed more brightly than it had in ages - brought to life by death. Torches burned healthily on every wall and two small, pine tables sported a cluster of flickering candles, gluing the parchments to their surface with the melting wax. In the floor’s center, atop a dusty tomb, multiple scrolls and books had been arranged, some with pages open. The dancing amber lights highlighted the ancient, scrolling texts, sketches of snarling teeth, of loathsome words. Shadow lore. At the base of the tomb, something far more wretched was arranged upon a pile of leathers – a corpse, fresh enough yet to harbor only a mild odor, nothing that some smoldering handfuls of sage couldn’t cure. Had it been lain in better light, the boy might have been named as handsome. Shaggy locks of ash blonde hair were matted with blood against his temples, hiding the tell-tale tattoo from view. Docile, brown eyes stared woefully out at the world from beneath half-closed lids. Bronzed skin turned pale by the kiss of death was riddled with bruises, lacerations, puncture marks. And there, scalded plainly into the hairless chest, was the puckering brand of the Church of True Light. “So young,” Whispered the fatigued voice of a woman, her shape moving effortlessly behind the tomb-turned table. A muffled clatter of metal resonated throughout the musty chamber as a leather satchel unfolded across the stone surface. Her hands shoved some of the books aside, making room for the instruments as she removed them one by one. Various tools of cutlery they were, each designed with sophistication to cater to its own specialty. All are left sleeping for now. Boots clod heavily over the pitted floor as the Duchess Rowena Valoria paced towards one of the writing tables. She plucked the quill from its inkwell and scribbled it lightly over the top of a page, lips mumbling the words. “Forgive me, brothers and sisters,” she voiced aloud, glancing aside to the final resting nooks and urns of Grandmasters, Mistresses, Ladies, and Guards gone before. “My intentions are far from blasphemous, of that I assure you. I will polish the stone when I am through.” Arching a brow, she felt near to a smile, but feelings of respect drove it from her face. A long, hard look to the young man stiffened on the floor sobered her expression further, lengthened the lines on her face. “And to you I am also regretful. Your life, as cursed as it were, had found exoneration. Your death does not speak of this. That is why I have taken you.” Pausing in her writing, Rowena laid the quill aside and capped the ink. It was time to begin. Spirits whispered in the walls as she moved, taking her arsenal to the floor at the boy’s side. Immortal eyes watched unseen, some reproachful, others concerned, as water gushed forth from a sponge. Gently, cautiously, the Royal Healer bathed the flesh in warm water, enticing the blood within to loosen, the wounds to drip anew. The basin filled with red as the corpse became cleansed from battered head to broken toes and, when it was all over, the handsome identity of the magus could shine through his wounds. “What is your story…?” Murmured the woman as she bowed aside and discarded the sponge. She groomed the hair back from his face, turning his head this way and that in her hand, searching for…anything. Her thumb pressed inquisitively into a gash above his left eye, testing the strength of the shattered bone. It held fairly firm, indicating that most likely, all bits inside the skull remained more or less in tact. One by one, she peeled back his hooded lids and stared into bloodshot eyes. They were the eyes of a scared lad – a far cry from a ferocious shadow beast. Closing them fully, Rowena breathed a sigh into her shoulder and next sought to pry open his mouth. The setting bones creaked in protest, unwilling to facilitate this invasion of privacy. Stretching the lips and reaching a curious finger inside, she traced his yellowed rows of teeth. Feeling something most unexpected, she jerked her hand back and scrambled over her heels to the servicing tomb. Her eyes watched the corpse accusingly while she blindly fished above for the desired instrument. What she grabbed was a tiny set of metal tongs. Aiming the point ends in his direction, she slinked back to his side and forced the tongs into the offending mouth. Some minutes later she had successfully extracted the oddity – a chunk of flesh. A sound panted forth from between her o-shaped lips and the Duchess dropped the morsel quickly to the floor. It isn’t often that a master of the medical arts can be mortified by the dead, but the bit of revealed tale /of/ this death had just managed to turn her stomach. Once her composure was regained and heart pacified, Rowena snatched a vial from her stash of tools and by using the tongs, stuffed the ashen skin inside. With a trembling hand, she raised the vial into the light and squinted awkwardly at it. It possessed a bit of curve and groove, it did, the inner tissue harboring a stiffness not brought by death alone. A notch of an ear, perhaps? Shuddering, she placed it behind her and forced her groaning knees to inch closer to the boy again. “I don’t suspect ‘twas the hand that fed you, eh?” Rowena grunted and traced her fingers over the shallower slash marks that marred his left cheek and throat. Kissed by a scourge’s whip, no doubt. Following the pattern over the rest of his upturned frame, she whispered a count beneath her breath and then rose to scribble another entry onto the parchment. And so the investigation continued, healer perusing over each inch of flesh, making note, poking, prodding, until all bruises, all cuts, all damaged fingernails were accounted for. The search ended along the young man’s spine, where Rowena named the final, mortal infliction. Having rolled the body over, she gazed solemnly into the deep, meaty wound that sealed his fate. She pressed a finger into it, seeking its depth. Cold, thickened blood bubbled forth and a lone tear etched its way along her cheek. An arrow piercing. “A great injustice this is,” She whispered to the lad’s hunched shoulder, “For what honor is there in the slaughter of a fleeing man.” Category:Chiaroscuro Stories